Those Rare Moments
by Spirit the Fire Dragon
Summary: A collection of those sappy, fluffy, loveable and sometimes angsty moments between Holmes and Russell. /Previously Moments of Frailty/
1. Chapter 1

In Which a Friend Loses an Unwinnable Battle

_My eyes filled up with tears as I heard the news_

_It never occurred to me, how much I could lose_

_I find myself wishing that it wasn't real_

_Every time I think about it, pain is all I can feel_

~Collette N. Alaniz

* * *

It is mostly well known that Sherlock Holmes was not an emotional man. This is often brought up in conversations when our marriage is questioned—which it often is, usually from the vast age difference and the fictional aura that follows my husband—and I have no true argument against it. No, Holmes is not emotional nor is he sentimental. But neither am I, so it happens to be a working association that has so far paid off in both of our lives.

But even so, Holmes does have his moments of weakness when the emotions in him overturn his brilliant mind. They are few and far in-between, but the moments are both passionate and dreadful. I loathe the moments of brooding sadness and cherish the declarations of love; though I would never tell him such.

It was five years into our illustrious and peculiar marriage when one such moment occurred. The cases had slowed and we were retired in our Sussex home. The stagnant times no longer wore on Holmes as they had in his youth, for now he had his bees to tend to and pending monographs to amuse himself with. I spent my time over my textbooks to catch up on the previous lack thereof due to an arduous case.

I had spent the morning brooding over the books and had yet to see Holmes, excluding the brief exchange in the morning when he had risen early and ordered me back to sleep. I acted on a whim and journeyed to find my husband later in the day, and I did so when I poked my head into the sitting room. He was seated at his desk, back to the dimming fire, sitting silently and staring at the window shutters to his right. Before him on the table was a crisp piece of paper.

I sensed not all was right and approached him, my eyes glancing over the paper before I understood completely what had sent my husband into such a gloomy mood. My heart clenched at the words _I apologize for your loss_ and _time of death._

I glanced up to my husband's face. His hawkish features were deadest in a neutral expression, but his eyes were shifting and clouded over, the give away in his stoic mask. His hands were clasped loosely in his lap and his nimble fingers were twitching nervously, as if beating out the tempo of his aching heart.

I briefly wondered if he wished to be alone, or if physical contact would be unwelcome. Often times he was adverse to affection, but I sensed in his tightly set shoulders and foggy grey eyes that now was an exception. I carefully wound my arm around his lean shoulders and tugged him closer to me.

My husband did not resist and allowed his head to be pillowed against my chest. My fingers ran gently through his thinning hair and after a few moments of gentle caresses, Holmes let out a stuttering sigh and closed his eyes. His shoulders sagged under an invisible weight and one of his long arms slid around me and tugged me closer to him.

I couldn't speak, I dared not to. I merely ran my fingers through his hair and allowed him to listen to my beating heart, as if to assure himself that they could still beat. I leaned my head down and rested my cheek against his ruffled hair and sighed, allowing my own eyes to close for a brief moment before I pressed a chaste kiss to the crown of his head.

Holmes sighed again and tugged my waist forward, forcing me to rearrange my limbs as to accommodate the position he obviously wanted me to assume. I ended up seated in his lap, arms around his shoulders and his head pillowed on my scarred shoulder, his dry and soft breaths puffing against my bare skin at even intervals.

We ended up separating some time later, Holmes ever the master once more after his brief display of frailty. We did not speak of it again, but that night we laid closer together with Holmes's head against my heart. He slept peacefully, the only respite from the harsh, bold inked letter that lay, burnt to ashes, in the fire.

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**Done because it had to be. Basically this is a collection of the moments of fluff and weakness that I (hopefully we) crave for in the books. **

**I apologize for any mistakes, I don't have a beta and so all mistakes are mine. I also apologize for the short length; I couldn't eek out any more. I also apologize for the quality, I wrote this rather quickly and published it just as fast.**

**I tried to keep Holmes in character, but in my defense he rarely is in these moments. I will take requests, and reviews are love and appreciated. See you all soon, I'm aiming for daily or close to updates. **

**Love to everyone! **

**-Spirit-**


	2. Chapter 2

In Which Stormy Nights Cause Introspective Thoughts

_The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift,_

_The road is forlorn all day,_

_Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift,_

_And the hoof-prints vanish away._

_The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee,_

_Expend their bloom in vain._

_Come over the hills and far with me,_

_And be my love in the rain._

~Robert Frost: "A Line-Storm Song"

* * *

Of all the nights to be suffering of insomnia, the night of the harshest and most volatile tempest to wrack the Sussex shores this year would have to be the worst possible. And I managed just that; I have been burrowed in the bed-clothes since I had initially laid down, watching the lightning illuminate the dark blue-black sky and listening to the following clap of temperamental thunder.

Holmes had fallen into the bed beside me some hours before, several after I had taken to bed. He was asleep within minutes and yet here I was, staring out at the blustering storm for _hours_ now without a single inkling of approaching sleep. It was incredibly irksome. I allowed myself a small sigh at my predicament and briefly entertained the idea of getting out of bed and sitting down by the embers of the fire in the sitting room to finish an interesting novella.

Our latest case had ended a mere sixteen hours before, and had drained both of us with its tedious work. In every right, I should have been sleeping by now and as deeply as I ever had, but the sleep would not come no matter how long I lay with my eyes shut and trying to ignore the claps of savage thunder outside the flimsy windows.

The storm was both haunting and debilitating, for storms always sent me into a rather solemn mood, and at the present moment it was preventing me from properly falling asleep. The erratic rumbles and flashes of divine white light from the lightning that struck down snatched my attention. There was more lightning than rain, more thunder than wind.

I uncoiled my hand from the confines of the bedclothes and held it before my face, which was facing the flashing window. A small dusting of cuts graced my knuckles and the pads of my third and fourth fingers. My wedding ring glinted in the lightning, looking white-gold for a brief moment before it faded to its worn but cared for originality. Both of our wedding rings were kept in well condition; after all, the state of a marriage can be deduced from the state of the wedding ring.

My marriage was well. Therefore my ring was as well.

I sighed and allowed my hand to drop, hanging off the side of the bed as I watched the window light up again with a distant strike of lightning. I counted to eleven before the thunder rolled over our tiny cottage. It was eerie to see a dangerous light illuminate the sky so silently, only to feel the sound it created nearly a dozen seconds later.

My thoughts once again turned to our finished case. It was petty, in nearly every respect, and I won't bore myself by reciting all of its characteristics. The end result of the problem was an impromptu bare knuckle boxing match between myself and two kidnapping blackmailers, several arrests, and a dead child.

The child had been barely clinging to life when we had found him, curled up under the grubby bed he had been thrown onto. Holmes and I held the poor child as he slipped away—ah, perhaps this is the cause of my insomnia. I was not—am not—as immune to emotions as Holmes. The sight of the child's beaten and bruised face in my mind's eye kept my physical pair open as the night dragged on.

I sighed at the thought and pushed myself up, sitting on the edge of the bed and hugging my middle. The darkness seemed much more malevolent now that the child's face was brought to the forefront of my mind. I shivered and looked out the window, still flashing and quaking. I sat there, immersed in my thoughts for quite some time before a quiet voice spoke from behind me.

"Watson always did lament when I sat up through the night," Holmes said, but I could hear the tinge of concern in his dry voice. "I understand now where such concern stems from."

The corners of my lips tilted up for a moment, but the amusement faded quickly. "Please refrain from speaking of Uncle John in our bed, Holmes," I said softly. Holmes chuckled, but it lacked the usual mirth that often caused such actions.

"Nevertheless," he continued after a shared moment of silence, "'Tis late, milady."

I nodded and watched the window brighten and darken; only speaking after several long moments of the thunder's silence. "When a case ends badly," I quietly ventured, "have you ever lost sleep because of their grievous faces in your mind's eye?"

Holmes was slow to respond, but his voice was slightly quieter than before. "I expect you know already."

I hummed, but it was a sad sound. "He was only a boy."

"Yes."

"A child, Holmes. That was somebody's child."

"They all are."

"I cannot imagine the…the…_agony_ of it. A constable relating to you that the illustrious and infallible Sherlock Holmes had failed? That your child was dead? What if it had been my own—" I knew I had said too much. I closed my mouth and turned more fully towards the window, so my silhouette was the only thing Holmes could see, and even then only when the lightning struck.

Holmes was just as silent as I was. Eventually, he dared to speak, and I dreaded his words. I felt as if I had crossed some unnamed boundary that was an unforgivable grievance.

"Nor can I," he admitted. I blinked at the confession and turned my head slightly, and I could see him propped up on one of his elbows, his ever keen grey eyes trained on me. The position must have irritated his rheumatism riddled joints, but he didn't even shift his weight as we stared at each other.

I was the one to finally break our gazes and I sighed, turning so my feet were hooked back on our bed and I was facing my husband more fully. "I've seen people die," I said, "and yet this is the first of which I have lost sleep over…excluding my family's deaths."

Holmes flicked his eyes to my tired face and to the window behind me, and ever so slowly did his eyes travel up to meet mine. "Children have a place in our hearts," he said, gently. "Their deaths are always painful, because children are meant to live, not to die. Russell, do lie down, you'll catch yourself a cold if you don't—we've both been running about in this rain and it won't do to be sick. That's it."

I had smiled at his order and did as he asked, bundling under the bed-clothes again and relishing the warmth of them. I sighed again and buried my head in the pillow; at the same time, I felt Holmes rest his hand on my shoulder, rubbing his nimble fingers soothingly along my skin.

I cracked one of my eyes open and looked at Holmes sternly from behind the veil of hair that partially hid my face. "I will not be sleeping tonight, Holmes."

He cracked a small smile, a lopsided one that was more resigned and true than anything else. "I'm very aware, Russ. But seeing as it is on the verge of…four in the morning, I doubt I will be able to sleep now that you've managed to rouse me."

I briefly smiled, but the image of the dead boy stole the expression from my face. I sighed and closed my eye again. "I cannot see anything but his face, Holmes."

"It will get easier," he promised me, gently. "Soon he will become a motive, for both of us."

_The child I will never have,_ I thought to myself. I said aloud, "Possibly."

Holmes had that expression on his face—the one where he knew exactly what I was thinking. I scowled and he smiled, briefly. He leaned down and across to place a kiss on my forehead. Then, at that moment, I read his thoughts as easily as he might have another. _If only because of my age, Russell._

I tilted my head up and brushed my lips against his; the first kiss we shared in what seemed like years. I allowed my head to rest back against the pillow and he followed suit, hands clasped over one another's and our noses nearly touching.

I didn't sleep that night. The storm continued on, but we lay together until it finally abated in the early morning. Holmes fell asleep soon after our conversation and woke when I was finally drifting off. I was at that stage he was often known to whisper his true thoughts to me, when he thought I was asleep. His lips pressed briefly to my temple, and his words ghosted across my ear before he stood.

My smile lingered for a moment or two before I finally succumbed to sleep, the storm a distant memory.

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**Eek. There you have it, so much sickly sweet gooiness that it practically oozes caramel. But this was inspired by the storm that kept me up last night. The lightning was beautiful and I couldn't sleep, so it was perfect writing material, I think.**

**Ahem. Anyways, again, sorry for any mistakes and thank you if you're reading! Reviews are love and I'll see you all tomorrow or very soon after.**

**-Spirit-**


	3. Chapter 3

In Which Holmes Attempts to Impersonate a Housekeeper

_The only advantage of not being too good a housekeeper is that your guests are so pleased to feel how very much better they are._

_~Eleanor Roosevelt _

* * *

"Holmes!" Confound it, where was that daft man? "Holmes!"

"Up early, Russ?" came his dry voice from the…kitchen? Why did he sound disappointed?

I was instantly suspicious. Whenever Holmes was in the kitchen, disaster was on the horizon and fast approaching.

"Holmes?" now my tone held complete suspicion as I made my vigilant way towards the kitchen, pushing the door in with the caution that rivaled a man strapped with meat entering a lion cage. I poked my head inside and couldn't help but gape at the sight that met my eyes.

Holmes was facing away from me, a suspicious white ribbon tied around his waist as he was bent over the counter and several bowls and ingredients. He turned after a moment and smiled sheepishly at me, completely rotating his body towards me. My jaw dropped at the sight of the housekeeper's apron tied firmly around his lean body, bagging conspicuously at the chest and hips.

I gaped like a fish for exactly four seconds before bursting out laughing, and my husband's sheepish smile coaxed more laughter from me. I controlled my surprise after a few more moments and stepped fully in, eyes raking him up and down, taking in the smudges of batter on his fingers and the streak of flour across the bridge of his hawkish nose.

"Holmes?" I eventually managed out, still smiling foolishly. "May I ask why you've decided to dress as our housekeeper?"

Holmes rubbed his thumb across his nose in an attempt to rid the flour from his face, but only managing to add a streak of doughy batter to the canvas of his nose. "Mrs. Hudson is away to her sister's for the weekend, and I was experimenting."

I approached him and peered around his apron-clad body, seeing the bowls and bowls of batters of differing consistencies and colors. I raised an eyebrow at him, peering at his sheepish face from over my spectacles. "Experimenting with scone batter?"

He wiped his hands on the apron that made me smirk before gesturing towards the bowls. "I…disagreed with the recipe and experimented with the ratios and ingredients."

"And why were you so inclined to make scones in Mrs. Hudson's absence?"

Now Holmes looked slightly embarrassed. "I wanted to surprise you."

My eyebrows shot up to my hairline, but a warm kindling sparked in my stomach at the words. I had recognized today was the eighth anniversary of our marriage, but I had not expected much more than a passing recognition of the day.

"Well, I believe it's easy enough to say you've managed that, Holmes," I said with an indulgent smile. He looked pleased. "However, you've done it entirely wrong. Here, give me that spoon."

And so we spent the next hour and a half working together in the kitchen, creating several successful mutations of the traditional scone and many more failures of the simple recipe. It was bliss.

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**Sorry for the wait, guys! I got sick the past few days and had a surprising lack of inspiration. And this is the result of little sleep and goldfish. **

**Excuse any mistakes, reviews and love and appreciated and see you all soon!**

**-Spirit-**


	4. Chapter 4

In Which Holmes is Quite Protective

"_Is there any instinct more deeply implanted in the heart of man than the pride of protection, a protection which is constantly exerted for a fragile and defenseless creature?"_

_~Honoré de Balzac_

* * *

Both Holmes and I have done odd and outlandish things for a case. I have dressed as gypsy, boy, nun and grieving widower, while Holmes as dressed as gypsy, beggar, bishop, woman and cab driver (these are only a few of the many parts we have played over the years). We have played our respectful parts with strict guidelines that we dare not waver from, and often the parts are played with pride.

One event presents itself to me, and it was a rather complex case that called for our disguises once more. As usual, I was to play the dim-witted, doe-eyed woman to draw in our suspect with my innocence, while Holmes would be on hand as one of the wait staff in the party we were attending. I was to attempt to pry as much information from the party goers as possible while Holmes would collect gossip from the other waiters and servants.

This should have gone along with ease, but the host of the party—I will not disclose his name for obvious reasons, but to reassure the reader he has been detained and imprisoned for two decades on the account of crimes—was much more eager than either Holmes or I expected.

I remember that I was dressed in a horribly uncomfortable dress that would have made a Victorian gentleman (excluding Holmes, he dressed me in the damned thing!) drop in a dead faint. It was horribly atrocious but I attempted to lure my host over with feigned empty-headedness. I was not to be disappointed, for not even an hour after my arrival was I approached by the sly fellow. I offered him a shy smile and accepted the glass of champagne he offered me with tipsy grace.

"How is the fine lady this evening?" he asked with a grin. He leaned against the rail of the elegant stairs of which I was standing near, after having finished a pitiful attempt at dancing with a kind young man a few years older than I. I smiled at him, though the sight of his dark, insect like eyes made me want to grimace.

"I'm rather enjoying myself, sir," I said, adding a tiny giggle on the end for good measure. He looked pleased.

"Very good," he purred. He pulled closer to me; I did my best not to cringe. "What may your name be, my fine lady?"

"Violet Everseau," I said as I fluttered my eyelashes.

"Ah, Violet, what a beautiful name—I may call you Violet, yes? Ah, thank you. You are as beautiful as your name, Violet, it I can permit to say such things." While he spoke, his hand came across my body to rest on my hip and play idly with one of the beads strung onto my dress at my hip. He had successfully trapped me against the wall of the staircase, with his back turned to the crowd and his arm keeping me firm against the wall.

I smiled, pretending not to notice the possessive nature of his movement. His hand grazed lower as he spoke again. "I haven't seen you around, Violet. You've come out of town?"

He was attempting to distract me with small talk as his hands came ever closer to trapping me and luring me into his seductive trap. It wasn't working on me, but it was on Violet. I tittered with laughter and spoke with a smile and hooded gaze. "Yes, my sisters and I have come from London for a trip out of the town. None of them wanted to come with me tonight, a shame too, it's full of such nice people! And drink," I amended, smiling indulgently at the untouched champagne glass in my hand. My host seemed not to notice that I hadn't sipped yet.

His face came ever closer to mine and I was beginning to feel cut off from the crowd; I spotted a cluster of men standing in front of the host, obviously talking about a recent rugby match and unaware of the lechery behind their backs. I was out of the eyes of the general person, and I was beginning to feel trapped by the lewd host, whose hand was currently descending to my thigh. I covered the feeling of distaste with a tiny smile and lowering my head in an act of apparent shyness.

And then the host had pinned me against the wall, his hand grasping what I will politely callthe back of my hips, his face looming over me. He was nearly as tall as Holmes and had just enough height on me to be able to look down at me with predator like eyes. I contained a cry of indignation and just stifled the urge to bring my knee between his legs, and managed to turn the sound about to leave my lips to a gasp.

I managed to place the glass of champagne in my hand at the small table near me, and I attempted to push him off with my hands on his shoulders. I was unsuccessful in the stifling a cry of surprise and annoyance when his hands groped my body.

Before I could rightfully retaliate—after all, I doubt I would be getting much information out of the driven and lecherous host—there was a sharp, dry voice that sounded from partly behind our host and my attacker and to his left. "Excuse me, _sir,_"—the voice was so mocking it made the term of often civility sound like the lowest insult.

The host turned around to scowl at the tall, graying waiter that stood before us. My eyes had hardly landed on his cold—angry?—grey eyes before the waiter spoke again, with much more ice and contained fury than before. "Get your hands off of my wife."

And then Holmes's fist had collided with the host's scowling face and the host fell to the floor with a broken jaw. My husband stood firm even when there were shocked gasps when the man fell, but I had only eyes for my husband—and who was only looking into my eyes. I didn't resist when he collected me in his arms and led me away.

I stopped him when we were alone in a hall that would lead to the back of the house—where, no doubt, an automobile was waiting to take us home, or the nearest police station—and without hesitation, grasped his face with both hands and pressed our lips together.

The kiss was passionate, sloppy and all too short. I pulled away and smiled—this time truthfully—at the man who was looking down at me, if only because he was taller. Holmes looked dazed and then smiled, almost sheepishly. His hands were on my hips and holding me possessively, and I felt rather at home.

"I saw him come onto you and…I didn't enjoy the sight," Holmes admitted.

"I'm glad you didn't," I responded with a small smile. "Thank you, Holmes. Protectiveness is a new trait. It looks good on you."

Holmes grimaced and I chuckled to myself as we swept outside and into the waiting automobile.

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**There. Whoop. Sorry if its OOC or forced, I was tentative with the conversation between the host and Russell. Anyways, sorry for any mistakes and reviews are love. Did anyone catch the Enola Holmes reference? Or the resemblance of a line to one in the Harry Potter movies? Heh heh, I'm bad.**

**I'll see you all next update! **

**-Spirit-**


	5. Chapter 5

In Which Holmes Expresses Affection for No Particular Reason

_Caresses, expressions of one sort or another, are necessary to the life of the affections as leaves are to the life of a tree. If they are wholly restrained, love will die at the roots._

_~Nathaniel Hawthorne_

* * *

Holmes was never an affectionate man. That's for certain—he rarely expresses his feelings beyond the clinical explanation and that's perfectly well. I'm much the same, but that doesn't mean I don't cherish those moments when we both need that brief exchange of affection. We are husband and wife, and that deems occasional exchanges necessary.

One such moment is one I will not forget. There was no case, no pressures, no reason—we had journeyed down to the cliffs near our cottage after we had checked Holmes's bees. All was well, and all was calm, and it was absolute bliss. We were exchanging comfortable quips as we walked—they were more affectionate observations than anything. It was comfortable and familiar, and it made both of us smile to ourselves when we thought the other wasn't watching.

We came to the cliff edge and I looked down to the wading pools, the toe of my boot hanging off the edge. I was observing the waves when suddenly two hands tugged me back playfully and I was jostled backwards into Holmes's chest. I gasped at the sudden movement and laughed dryly when Holmes's arms wound around me and made me step back with him.

I laughed good naturedly and clasped my hands over his, finding happiness in his playful nature. Rarely was Holmes demonstrative and even more rarely _playful_, but there we were and I wasn't going to question it.

"Damn it, Holmes, I could have fallen, you daft man!" I teased, but I knew he could hear the smile in my voice and the laughter bleeding into the stern tone. I felt him smile against my hair and I heard his dry, rumbling chuckle in my ear before he spoke.

"Well, I either would have fallen with you or dove, my dear Russell," he said, sounding amused but completely serious. I smiled.

"Your rheumatism would not be pleased," I pointed out, still comfortably holding his clasped hands where they rested just below the space between my collar bones.

"A simple bout of rheumatism would not dissuade me from diving after my young wife," Holmes said firmly, but I sensed the playfulness in him as we stood together. I swayed my hips a bit to an imaginary melody and he followed suit, humming a nonsensical tune. We remained as thus, comfortable in one another's presence for quite some time, watching the sun and the waves.

Eventually, Holmes and I parted to return to our cottage, content with the day and our hands comfortably linked. He never explained his sudden display, and I never questioned, but the day was far too pleasant to be bothered over such a trivial matter.

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**Heh heh heh…**

**No words. Reviews are love, thanks for those who are reading, and I apologize for any mistakes. Love you all!**

**-Spirit-**


	6. Chapter 6

In Which Holmes Soothes an Implosion-Inducing Migraine

_Circles create soothing space, where even reticent people can realize that their voice is welcome. _

_~Margaret J. Wheatley _

* * *

Oh, bother. Migraines. Even the brightest of minds fall susceptible to such a cunning and commonplace ailment. I've many a time seen Holmes incapacitated by a crippling migraine that's left him whimpering at the tiniest trickle of light or cringing at the softest of sounds. I often leave him in our bed to endure alone, but other times I've found myself leaning against our headboard with Holmes's head in my lap, me massaging his aching head while I flip lazily through a textbook.

But, as the fates must have it, our roles are reversed, and I am the one withering under a migraine's throbbing fire. I am curled under the bedclothes; head nestled into the pillow so the light slipping from the shutters wouldn't reach my sensitive eyes. I've been in such a position since morning, when I woke and found myself unable to stand due to the throbbing behind my eyes. Holmes laid me down after closing the shutters and had made himself blessedly scarce.

I groaned and pressed the heels of my palms into my eyes, wincing at the dull pounding that resonated in my brain. The sounds of the bedclothes rustling was enough to make me cringe, while the ticking of the hall clock resounded through my head. I made a pitiful sound and slowly rolled onto my stomach, clutching the pillow over the head that would undoubtedly explode if I moved too quickly.

I absently heard footsteps approach and the door creaked as it was opened tentatively (Holmes insisted on never allowing the hinges to be oiled, so the hinges would squeak and squeal if it was ever opened; a commonplace obstacle to a burglar and a handy tool to a light-sleeping detective and his wife, both of which had several enemies) and I made a muffled sound of disapproval as I heard Holmes's slippers scrape against the carpet.

"Holmes," I muttered into the pillow, softly, but the sound echoed in my head and made me groan. "I do believe I am going to die."

"Hardly," was his soft response; soft in volume but amused and sympathetic in tone. "You have survived bullets and car crashes and heinous villains—a mere headache will not down such a mighty warrior."

"No, I insist this will be my downfall," I groaned. "This is the most heinous villain and the most deadly of bullets."

Holmes chuckled, dryly, and the sound both amused me and hurt me—the hurt reverberating inside of my deteriorating brain. I felt the mattress dip and I moaned at the shift. Soon I felt soft touches along my exposed neck, and the pillow was removed from my imploding skull without much resistance. Holmes shifted my body while I grimaced, and I ended up with my head nestled in his lap with his lean, violinist fingers rubbing gentle circles in the back of my skull and around my temples.

I realized what a productive position this was—I had treated Holmes royally through his headaches. I was grateful for the gesture. I sighed when his fingers rubbed the soothing circles in my head and eased away some of the pain.

"May this be the only time I refuse a lady's insistence," Holmes murmured. I mumbled incoherently. "I can assure you that you will survive, Russ."

"If you insist," I muttered, and I was rewarded with a tiny chuckle that made Holmes's stomach lightly shake against my nose, which was nestled comfortably just above his naval. I smiled briefly and groaned—this time in appreciation—as his fingers soothed away some of the pain from my horrendous migraine.

"Use your incredible deductive powers to find a cure for migraines," I muttered good-naturedly. I could sense Holmes smile, even though I couldn't see it. Holmes sighed and said, "Ah, Russ, if only my mind could be turned to such trivial matters."

I cracked open one of my eyes and set a glare at Holmes's face, but he was a blurry, dark mass hovering above my head since my spectacles were discarded on the bedside table. "This is not trivial," I snapped. "This is the implosion of your wife's brain, Holmes."

"Why then do you not turn your brain when your…husband's mind is on the verge of implosion?"

"One, you never asked," I grumbled. "Two, I am studying theology."

Holmes laughed and continued his ministrations upon my aching skull, easing away the pain gradually as the minutes passed. I believe I fell asleep with my head nestled in Holmes's lap, and when I woke my head had been transferred to the crook of my husband's neck and shoulder. I felt his whispering breaths upon my now nearly pain free head as he slept—I smiled and nestled closer, slipping back into sleep.

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**The normal disclaimers, ect ect. I will take requests, and thanks to those who've reviewed, favorited and alerted. Love to all of you!**

**-Spirit-**


	7. Chapter 7

In Which Man's Best Friends Meet

_Old dogs, like old shoes, are comfortable. They might be a bit out of shape and a little worn around the edges, but they fit well._

_~Bonnie Wilcox_

* * *

Mrs. Hudson loves her dogs.

Mrs. Hudson will argue with you day in and day out that she has the best and most amiable dogs in England. She lives in a tiny home in Sussex and cares for her dogs as if they were her children.

Her first was the tiny, bulldoggish Watson. Watson was given to her by a kind doctor after he could no longer care for him. Watson was hurt in his leg by a hunter, she was told, and now had a pronounced limp in his hind left leg. Watson was sweet and protected her fiercely, but Mrs. Hudson knew the bulldog was lonely and immediately procured another dog in need of a home.

Holmes came next. Holmes, like Watson, had a history as well—but instead of getting shot; the greyhound had been used in police investigations at London with a startling degree of success, and had been retired from the force after an incredible location of a German spy. The constable that had given Holmes to Mrs. Hudson told her of the dog's strange ways, but there was no denying that Holmes was an incredibly intelligent canine. He was a beautiful dog as well, colored by a peculiar shade of dark grey with transparent, silver eyes. He exerted himself with astounding energy when the fits came upon him, but mostly opted to laze (sulk) by the fire with Mrs. Hudson.

Holmes and Watson lived a happy life together for many years, but Watson got ill and didn't recover some years after Holmes and Watson were introduced. Mrs. Hudson had never seen a dog mourn before, but Holmes seemed to have taken his companion's death to heart and rarely left the cottage, and when he did it was to only lay by the spot where Mrs. Hudson's son had buried the bulldog under a spindly tree.

Mrs. Hudson felt incredibly sorry for the greyhound. She wasn't sure whether it would be best to let the dog alone and allow him to continue in his ways, or introduce another pup or dog to him as to take his mind from his friend. Eventually, when a friend came to Mrs. Hudson with a tale of a fire where an entire litter of pups and the two parents had been killed except for one lone survivor, she made her decision and brought the little puppy home.

The puppy was a rare (and dying out) breed, an English white terrier, with burn scars on her shoulder and arm. The puppy was the runt of the litter and had only survived because she had wandered off from her brothers before the fire had started and had found refuge in a tiny hole in the basement foundation. Russell, the pup's rescuer had named her. Little Miracle Russell.

Mrs. Hudson introduced Holmes and Russell that night, where the tiny puppy wandered (limped) over to the greyhound and promptly bit on his ear. Holmes looked startled to Mrs. Hudson, and lifted his head from the floor to nudge the puppy rather roughly away with his nose. The terrier responded with equal force and managed to shift Holmes's spindly leg over so she could lie comfortably between his paws. Mrs. Hudson had to keep from giggling when she saw the look of near human resignation and shock on the older dog's face.

Holmes was rather weary of Russell at first, but the tiny pup would not let the elder out of her sight and eventually he accepted her presence. The greyhound seemed to teach the puppy the ways of his world, and Mrs. Hudson, on more than one occasion, saw him nudging the puppy to direct her attention to something that made the pup squirm with delight or surprise. She particularly liked the bees when Holmes showed her the hives Mrs. Hudson's neighbor kept, and wouldn't leave Holmes's side when he showed her Watson's grave. (Mrs. Hudson had a feeling that was when Holmes truly accepted Russell, because he wouldn't allow someone he didn't like or approve of to his beloved companion's gravesite.)

Eventually, Holmes wouldn't allow Russell out of his sight. The pup grew into a strong, healthy white terrier (one of the last in England) and always managed to keep the older greyhound on his toes. Mrs. Hudson had some inkling that the two got into more trouble than they let on, and once Mrs. Hudson had to retrieve the two from the local police station from when she had received a call that her two dogs had found and protected a missing child.

Mrs. Hudson peeked over her mending to see the puppy (now five years old) and the greyhound (now a startling thirteen, seeing as greyhounds had a life expectancy of ten) dozing together by the fireplace. The terrier had her head on one of Holmes's paws while his head lay across her back. Mrs. Hudson smiled indulgently to herself and directed her attention once more to her sewing.

Oh yes, Mrs. Hudson loved her dogs.


	8. Chapter 8

**Okay. So. I have come to the conclusion that since my traitorous mind cannot come up with fluffy, Holmesesque situations, I'll start posting drabbles of sorts here between the fluffy bits. I hope that's alright, but they would be similar to last chapter and most probably be AUs (like this chapter). Thank you all, and I hope you enjoy. Don't feel shy to leave a review or a request so I know you're out there. **

**-SPIRIT**

**Postscript:**

**This was inspired by the game **_**Assassin's Creed**_**, of which I have become rather recently hooked on, and frankly cannot get it out of my head. Several main concepts are taken directly from **_**Assassin's Creed.**_** This chapter will be placed in Jerusalem in the 1100s (when the game is set), and will involve a certain amount of death and suggestive themes since it is, obviously, assassins we are dealing with. **

**-S **

* * *

"Russell, keep your eyes up and your head down, you stupid girl!"

I jerked my head at the harsh voice of my mentor, Donleavy, and quickly complied with her instructions when I shook myself from my drifting thoughts. Donleavy was, by no means, a complacent and undemanding teacher, but she was practical and successful in her field. My aunt had been pleased when I had been offered the position as her apprentice merely because Donleavy was well known and rather rich. My aunt was given a substantial sum each month I was away to keep her mouth shut as to my tutelage.

After all, not many people would take kindly to learning that little, unassuming Mary Russell was being taught in the arts of assassins.

I shook myself once more of my wandering thoughts and scolded myself into focusing. I never failed to allow my thoughts to wander in the time before a task. I lowered my head again as to shield my face from under my protective white hood as my eyes lifted up, like instructed. My tunic was scuffed and torn on the hem from a rather rough-and-tumble flee from Jerusalem's over eager soldiers the previous day. The black sash—which deigned me an apprentice, while a qualified assassin would wear red—around my waist swung precariously down as I crouched on a rooftop next to my scowling mentor, Donleavy.

"Always be on the lookout, girl. Never allow yourself to be vulnerable for even a second. Soldiers and Templars never fail to attack at the precise moment you allow yourself to drift. With you, it's a startling amount of your time in the streets—without my presence, you'd be in pieces by now. Pay attention now, and find our target."

I blinked and focused my eyes behind the spectacles especially made by my teacher so I could actually see at this distance. The spectacles were held tightly to my face by a band so in mad flights they wouldn't go flying and leave me blind. I scanned the meandering people in the street below and kept half an eye for the archer on the opposing rooftop.

"Well? I'm growing impatient, girl. Where is he?"

I swept my eyes through the market square again and saw the telltale flash of a red cape between the milling pedestrians. I said, "There, Master. Behind the cloth merchant's stall."

"Well enough, novice. You are far too slow in your location. Nevertheless, eliminate him and return here without a barrack of soldiers on your heels, understand? Else I won't be here and you'll be left to the task of losing them, unlike yesterday. I won't be your saving angel any longer, girl. A few scars will do you good. You have ten minutes."

I nodded at my Mentor's harsh tone and quickly stood, running the roof's edge with ease and swinging down onto a ladder. I made my way to the streets and kept my head down, my face hidden in the shadow of my hood, as I made my way through the passersby and towards my target, one Captain Ruskin. Captain Ruskin had been the conspirator of several executions in the past several weeks and the head Dai of Jerusalem—or the leader of all the assassin's in Jerusalem, who authorized all the assassinations and gave the informers of the city busy with tasks of keeping tabs on the enemies of the Brotherhood—had authorized my mentor and I to eliminate him and his poisonous presence from the city.

But enough of my blathering. I was closing in on Captain Ruskin, blending in with a herd of scholars as they roamed past, and my knife on my hips was nearly itching to taste the tang of his blackened blood. I sat on a bench between two aggravated looking women as the Captain turned to inspect the narrowing city streets behind him before he swaggered towards an abandoned looking alley, hand on his sword.

I stood and quickly followed, slipping into rhythm behind the Captain easily. My feet fell in sync with his as to not raise echoing footsteps in the quiet, narrow street. The buildings were close together and towering, but my trained eyes easily picked out bolted windows and cracks in the stone that would serve for perfect handholds to climb to the roof if needs be.

I had nearly overtaken the oblivious Captain by now, and I silently slid my dagger from its sheath on my hip. I quickened my steps and took a moment to collect myself before I reached out and grabbed the Captain's shoulders, raised the blade and brought it swinging into his kidneys.

The Captain's reaction was unexpected. He had much quicker reaction time than I suspected. The Captain, when I grasped his shoulder, twisted so my blade hit nothing but empty air and his hand grasped my wrist in an iron grip. I gasped and tried to pull away, but the Captain griped the sash on my waist and slammed me into a building front. His eyes searched my face, first angrily, and then almost comically as his eyes deciphered my flaming blue eyes from the shadow of my hood.

Captain Ruskin barked a rough laugh. "They're sending _girls_ out now, eh? Getting desperate, you assassins?"

"We are anything but," I spat at him. Though I was of considerably height for my sex and age, the Captain towered above me by several inches and leered down his nose at me. Our bodies were uncomfortably close, and if I couldn't break the grip on both of my wrists from where they were pinned against the wall, I would be at his mercy until he deemed it safe to release me. My dagger was lying on the ground near where I had attacked him, shining dully in the dull light.

The Captain laughed and brought our bodies flush together. "I doubt that, sweet thing. Sending a youth such as you—let alone a _girl_ at that—depicts such weariness in your brotherhood as they can no longer spare more capable assassins. Is your brotherhood weakening? Do you feel the weight of its crumbling carcass on your meek shoulders?"

I glared at the Captain and struggled against his grip, but the Captain knew what he was doing and had me pinned completely to the wall. My wrists were held with masculine leverage and my feet pinned by his own—I could barely squirm, let alone twist out of his grip to eliminate such an irksome and lecherous man.

The Captain's face descended closer to mine, so our noses were brushing and his horrid breath puffing over my face. I didn't bother to try and hide my disgust at his proximity and bore my teeth to him to display it. The Captain laughed and ground his hips suggestively into mine, making my eyes widen and body tense. "Shall we visit my chambers, assassin? Perhaps I can break such a wild mare like yourself."

I raised my eyes and spat directly in his face, aiming for his eye but I only managed to hit his right eyebrow. "Curse you to hell," I spat, this time with words.

The captain looked murderous. He took my hands off of the wall without releasing his grip and with them my entire upper body before slamming them back, making my head crack against the stone. I grunted. "How dare you," he hissed. "You are nothing but heretic scum, girl. You should know when to bow to your superiors!"

And then Captain Ruskin's grip was off of my wrists and his face removed from the space in front of mine. His body crumpled with a startled gasp at my feet, and I was suddenly liberated from his lecherous presence, with much relief. My eyes rose from his bleeding body to the tall, spindly man standing directly in front of me, my own dagger held loosely in his grasp, bloodied courtesy from the captain's lower back.

I took a step from the wall and looked the man in front of my over. He was incredibly tall and lanky, with a grey hood capping his head and a meticulous white tunic covering most of his skin. Leather buckled boots similar to mine hugged his legs and a red sash with intricate black embroidery hung from his waist. I couldn't quite see his eyes from the shadow of his hood, but the chin was prominent and the thin, firm lips were quirked up in a small, satisfied smile. He flipped the blade in his hand so he was holding the bloody blade and offered the hilt to me.

"I believe this is yours," he said.

I took the blade wearily and held it at my side in case I was molested by two men in one day.

The man's thin lips smiled more broadly at my silence. "I do believe a thank you is in order," he said with that damned smile.

I frowned at the expectant tone and said instead, "I was supposed to kill him."

The assassin before me smiled patronizingly. "Tell your mentor you killed him, then," he compromised. "She obviously isn't watching you at this stage."

I blinked. I realized the logic behind his deduction, and wasn't impressed by it. The black sash deemed me apprentice, the absence of a helpful mentor when I failed in the quick assassination, and the failure of calling out for my mentor's help when I was pinned were factors in the assumption, and in the brotherhood, female assassins were usually taught by master female assassins. With another quick glance over his body, I said, "If I were you, I'd stay in Acre. Better floral diversity for your bees, that is."

The man seemed to stop at my suggestion, and then burst out laughing. He obviously knew where I had drawn the information for the tiny deduction—the multiple bee stings on his exposed fingers in his fingerless gloves, the trace of yellowish pollen on the hem of his robe, and the distinctive red soil from acre smudged on the edges of his boots.

"Yes, I thought as much," he replied with a lingering smile—this time more true than before. "I must be off, and I know your mentor has put a time limit on your assassination—what is it, fifteen minutes? Ten? Your mentor is unforgiving then. But before we part, may I ask your name in case we cross paths again?"

I looked at him wearily before I finally said, "Marielle Russell. "

"Well, Miss Russell, I am Sherlock Holmes. Now, I must be off. Do give your mentor my regards." And then he was gone.

I was left dumbfounded where I stood. Everyone knew the name Sherlock Holmes—the great, infamous master assassin Holmes who stopped the siege of the assassin's home, Maysef, who alienated his fellow brothers with his eccentric and strange assassinations, and his notorious failure at Damascus that cost the brotherhood countless lives several years ago. The man had been banished from the brotherhood and had since been a lone wandering assassin, showing up only in times of crisis and vanishing in the familiar way of his brothers.

I looked around, though I knew I would not see him, and slowly started my way towards the nearest ladder to make my way back to the rooftops. I turned back once, only once, and I could have sworn I saw the flash of a pearly white grin and the flash of a grey hood in the nearby square…but my eyes lost the flash and I saw no more of that strange savior.

* * *

**That took ages. Wow. Does that count as fluffy? A rare moment indeed between two assassins. Maybe if this gets a positive response I'll continue this little AU…but for now, I'll let Marielle Russell, Apprentice Assassin rest. (Also, a note on that, I wanted to make Russell's name a bit older and foreign because it's the 1100s and in the Holy Land, heh heh).**

** Thank you all, and see you soon. Review if you please! (Master Assassin Holmes would be pleased)**

** -Spirit-**


	9. Chapter 9

In Which Holmes and Russell Witness an Apocalypse

_This is the way the world ends_

_This is the way the world ends_

_This is the way the world ends_

_Not with a bang but a whimper._

_-T. S. Eliot_

* * *

Holmes woke me four and a half minutes after one in the morning. I stirred and rolled to look at him, at his worn face, and I felt grateful the man had complied with my wishes as to waking me before The End.

I pulled my body up and sat next to my husband, who looked like he hadn't rested for the past five nights—which is something I suspected but never had the heart to ask. I didn't speak, there was no need. Nothing mattered, not now. No words could stall the inevitable, no whispered confessions would stop the unraveling—nothing could end our lives, everyone's lives. I didn't attempt to. Nor did Holmes.

I stood and swiped open the curtain at our window, looking at the sky. It was a strange sight, different than the previous ordinary day; the sky was a dark purple with floating, automobile-size lights drifting on invisible tides and ebbs, while ribbons of deep reds and oranges outlined the deteriorating atmosphere like clouds. I watched it for a few moments, watching the lights dance and the ribbons twist before I closed the curtain and turned back to my husband.

With no words, none yet, I went back to our bed and crawled in—without hesitation, I settled next to Holmes and allowed his lean arm to take me around the shoulders. The darkness in our small room was almost comforting, better than the silence outside and the bright, alien lights drifting down towards the earth. The darkness was normal, the darkness was safety.

Who sees this? I wondered. Who is looking out their windows and noticing the lights? The ribbons? Who is panicking or kissing their spouses goodbye? Who of those is holding their kids, as if to protect them? Who's sleeping, sleeping peacefully and without fear…?

I pressed my lips together and looked briefly up at Holmes. I saw the profile of his drawn, tight face in the light drifting through the curtains. His hawkish nose seemed ever more prominent, the cheeks sunk in with his eyes from the sleepless nights. The contours of his face were drastically outlined, making him look older and startling—unreal, perhaps. His skin was pale even in the darkness and but his grey eyes darted from shadow to shadow even as his fingers dug deeper into my arm. Reassuring him that I was still there.

Suddenly, I felt the keenest and most painful stab of dread and of pain, because I was about to die and I was leaving my husband who was more my partner but nevertheless, I had never loved anyone as I had him and it took my breath away. The sudden agony of our approaching deaths hit me with such force that I could not breathe and I nearly doubled into myself from it.

Holmes turned to look at me, and his beauty struck me just as the agony had; the features described so wantonly in Uncle John's stories were emphasized in the pale, ethereal light as he searched my face. I had the sudden realization that Holmes had known and had carried this unbearable pain in his chest for days now, possibly weeks, because he had known for so much longer than I.

I reached my hand up; cupped his cheek. He leaned into my touch, pulling me closer. I grasped the back of his neck and held myself to him, because now I was afraid, and I didn't want this to be the last moments of my life with Holmes's features drawn with the same fears and anxieties that mine must have just displayed. I leaned my head into his shoulder, wanting nothing more than to fall back asleep and forget, to wake up in the morning to Mrs. Hudson's scones and scolding voice—

Mrs. Hudson is with her sister, I reminded myself firmly. She is sleeping and she won't know. Uncle John, too—sleeping soundly, unaware of their approaching deaths, because what was the use of telling them? Nothing we or they could do would stop it, why cause unneeded panic among the public? Better let them sleep and allow the dream of haunting normalcy that they would wake in the morning linger in their minds.

I closed my eyes. I felt no hesitation in speaking my mind, not now, because what did it matter? We only had moments, seconds, any moment the world would deteriorate into dust—

"I'm afraid, Holmes."

His grip tightened around me, his breath hitched against my hair. "I am as well, Russell."

I opened my eyes and closed them again; the light was stronger, filling the room and killing the darkness—I wanted the shadows to return, to keep us safe, so I imagined them still lingering on our walls.

"What of your bees?"

Holmes was silent, for a moment, before he said, "Unaware. As much of mankind; the similarities between the two species continue even now."

It was my turn to let the silence grow, for only a few moments, because how many were left? I hoped that Holmes wasn't counting; I prayed he wasn't aware of the clock winding itself down. But perhaps the awareness was better, better than my ignorance and the anxiety that every moment could be the last.

"Holmes, I—"

"Shh, Russe-"


	10. Chapter 10

In Which the Darkness is Blinding

_I would hurl words into this darkness and wait for an echo, and if an echo sounded, no matter how faintly, I would send other words to tell, to march, to fight, to create a sense of hunger for life that gnaws in us all._

_-Richard Wright_

* * *

"Ughh…ow, God damn it my head hurts…"

* * *

"Holmes? Ow…Holmes? Ouch! Damn it, where am I? Is this…stone? I swear, if I'm in some damned cellar…"

"Holmes! Holmes, where are you? It's too dark here—I can't see anything and my head is pounding…_hiss_…and bleeding…I think I got hit over the head with something…I can't remember anything…Holmes? Holmes…?"

* * *

"Holmes…? Fine. I'm alone, then. Brilliant. Think, Russell…_ow! _My leg too? Damn it! It's bleeding…oh, God, is that the bone? _Ouch! _Yes…lovely mess you've made of this, Russell. Just brilliant. Bleeding out through my skull and fibula sticking out of my calf…"

* * *

"Ohhhh…"

"Holmes? Is that you?"

"Russell?"

"Yes, Holmes! Where are you?"

"I don't rightly know that, it's so dark in here…you sound far away. Are you hurt?"

"Haven't you been listening?"

"Unless I can listen while I'm unconscious and bearing a rather spectacular head wound, then no. Again, are you hurt?"

"Yes—I can feel bone out of my left leg and I think I was hit in the head with a candelabra…"

"It was a cane."

"A cane? You remember then! What happened?"

"Can you move? I seem to be chained to the wall. If you get to me I can use your hair-pins to pick the locks. And yes, most of the events."

"Ouch…I'll try…but what happened then? It's all dark to me."

"What's the last thing you remember? Careful!"

"Ow! God damn it, I'm fine!"

"You don't sound fine."

"Well, I am. I remember…remember leaving Mycroft's. We were going to the café to eavesdrop to learn where…Henry's? No, Harold! Gregory Harold's men were transporting the stolen pieces from the museum. I…don't remember ever getting there."

"We didn't. We were attacked on the way by Harold's men halfway there. We nearly got out but a lucky blow struck you down and I made to retrieve you but I was outnumbered by reinforcements and struck by a….short club, I believe. That is all I recall until waking up to your nearly inarticulate ramblings."

"They were not ramblings! If you don't remember, I've a head wound and a bone sticking out of my leg! I think I'm allowed to complain, just this once—"

"No, here, Russell! There. Reach out_—ack!—_yes, that is me. Do be more…ahem…careful next time, Russ."

"Your voice is higher. Did I hit somewhere…_sensitive?"_

"Ahem…hmm…your hair-pins, please?"

"Of course, Holmes."

* * *

"Have you done it yet? I'm starting to lose feeling in my fingers."

"One moment, Russ. Ah, there it is! I'm free—here, take my hand. Show me where you are injured."

"Here—_hiss! _And my leg…"

"Indeed…no, you cannot walk in such a state, Russ."

"How're we to escape then? I don't wish to become infected, if possible."

"Lestrade and his hard-working fellows will take far too long to find us. Did they take your pistol?"

"Hmm…ah, no. I've got it, here. And yet they don't think to disarm the lady."

"Fortunately. Give it here. Loaded still, very good. Where are your legs? Alright, take a deep breath—"

"Holmes? What are you—_ack! _What are you doing? Put me down this instant!"

"Dear God, Russell, I believe you've just deafened me. You cannot walk, I have two capable arms and a relatively strong back and neck—please do not cling too tightly to the latter, I do need to breathe, thank you—so I am carrying you."

"You could have warned me! Dear God, are you always this high up? I feel dizzy all the way up here…"

"I don't believe it is the height that is disorienting you, Russ. Focus on your breathing."

"No…the room is still spinning. If only I could see it…"

"Deep breaths, then. In…out…in….out, good. Keep calm, I've found a door. It will take but a moment to pick. Here, I'm going to set you down."

"I'm fine…Holmes…I'm fine…"

"You sound awfully faint. Do try to stay awake, Russ, please. I'll be with you in a moment…"

"Holmes…? Your voice is echoing, where are you? Holmes! Holmes…?"

* * *

"Ah, good to see you awake, Russ. How is your head?"

"I feel as if it's been obliterated and pasted roughly back together. Why am I still in the hospital?"

"Well, you look better than. Here, drink this—it will clear your throat. You've only just come back from surgery, you'll be staying the night and I believe tomorrow."

"And you?"

"I will be staying to keep the company of my injured young wife."

"I meant how your state of health is fairing. It is not every day one must carry their spouse with a tremendous head wound, if your bandage is anything to go by."

"A mere scratch, I've been assured. I am faring well enough. I was nearly restrained earlier, however…"

"Of course. What for?"

"They would not allow me to see you."

"You can see me now."

"Yes. Thank God."

"You are well, then?"

"Now, yes."

"As am I. Now."

* * *

**First time attempting an all-dialogue. Just for kicks, you know? Sorry for any mistakes. Not a lot of fluffiness but I hope it's alright. Sorry for the slow updates, time ran me over a few times. I still love all of you and I can't wait to see you all again soon. My love to all.**

**-Spirit-**


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